


Going Up.

by AnOutlandishFanfic



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-10-21 12:46:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOutlandishFanfic/pseuds/AnOutlandishFanfic
Summary: Claire and Jamie get stuck in an elevator.





	1. Chapter 1

January 18th, 2019, 6:30am; Boston, MA.

“Ifrin! Sorry, lass!”

A hand reached out and stopped the doors of the lift from closing on me, a contrite gaze appearing on the other side as they opened again.

Jesus H Roosevelt Christ.

It was him.

With eyes as blue as his cerulean scrubs and a physique that had much of the staff — of any gender — hoping that Dr James Fraser was single, the NICU’s most recent hire was the subject of a great many conversations.

“I’m so sorry, I didna see you,” he apologized again before his attention flicked to the panel of buttons. “Which floor?”

“It’s, ah, quite alright,” I stammered.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Beauchamp. Pull yourself together. It’s not as if you’ve never seen an attractive man before.

“Sixth, please.”

He nodded, pressing the correct number and we both fell into an obligatory silence as the compartment settled into motion. I shifted my bag on my shoulder and took a swig of my coffee, sneaking another look at him out the corner of my eye. His chin was lifted as he watched the floors tick by, his averted attention emboldening me to study him more closely.

This mysterious Dr Fraser certainly did live up to all the hype.

His profile was strong and confident, harkening back to the mighty Highland warriors he was sure to have descended from, yet his courtesy towards the matter of the doors nearly closing on me bespoke of a nature much more delicate than his highly toned muscles suggested. I noticed his fingers tapping nervously against the side of his leg and I found the dichotomy of a man of his stature caring for the tiniest of patients incredibly endearing.

“Are you settling in alright?” the question tumbled from my lips before I could stem it.

“Oh, aye,” he turned back to me with a ready smile. “Kind of you to ask.”

“I’m Claire, by the way… the pediatric surgeon here,” I extended my hand in introduction.

His brows rose in esteem as he shook it, “You’d be Dr Beauchamp, then. Your reputation precedes you.”

“As does yours,” I rose one of my own in response, grinning outright. “They say you have a way with babes.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that made, “Aye, wee bairns, no’ bonnie la—“

His words were suddenly cut off by a deafening, mechanical squeal as we came to a grinding halt, the lights flickering once or twice before extinguishing completely.

“What the hell?!” I muttered, groping for my phone in my coat pocket.

A burst of light illuminated my companion as he retrieved his first.

“Tis the storm,” the floating head declared. “Must be quite the stromash to cause an outage the likes of this.”

He pushed a few of the control buttons at random, despite the fact that the lift had absolutely no electricity to function, and asked, “Do you have any service in here? I dinna have much.”

“About the same as you,” I sighed as I scrolled through my contacts in search for my charge nurse’s cell number. I would’ve called the desk, but with the power out, it wouldn’t even ring.

What happens to the patients when there’s a power outage?

“We’ve generators in place,” he responded to the question I hadn’t intended to ask aloud. “I ken the intensive care units have contingency plans, at least… in Wilmington it involved emergency generators.”

I hit call and nodded, not really caring if he saw the movement in the dark or not. Thankfully, it rang, but she didn’t answer and I was left with her voicemail inbox.

What was going on out there?


	2. Ch. 2

About Hour Later; 7:45am.

No one was responding.

We’d tried calling every staff member in our phones and sent out dozens of SOS texts, but the connections were either dropped or went through unanswered. I’d lost count of how many I’d sent to my nurse Jillian Edgars— who I knew to be in the building — and Dr Fraser — who now insisted I call him Jamie — had done the same to a mutual colleague the name of Joe Abernathy.

“Anythin’?” my companion sighed heavily, tossing his phone aside with a dull thud.

My own was serving as a lamp of sorts, with the torch app on and positioned to refract off the stainless steel doors of the lift. It provided us with just enough light to make out each other’s features in our boxed cave, revealing that the both of us were scowling at the shadows gathering in the corners while we sat uncomfortably on the floor.

I sighed, “Not a bloody thing.”

He made a low grunt in response and muttered something in a language I didn’t recognize, making me tip my head in question.

“Come again?”

“I was only complainin’,” Jamie shrugged. “Not worth repeating, really.”

“Were you speaking Scottish?”

“Scots-Gaelic, aye.”

I tipped my head in curiosity, asking “What are the differences between that and Irish?

His lips twitched into an amused smile that reached all the way to his eyes, the excitement radiating from him suggesting that I’d found a topic he quite enjoyed. He settled himself into a more comfortable position and began to regale me of their respective phonetic and orthographic differences, even going so far as to explain the geopolitical influences of their common English oppressor.

“So, bottom line, much more than you’d think, Sassenach,” he grinned at me.

“Hey!” I protested and found myself laughing, in spite of our stranded situation. “What did you just call me?”

“An outlander or a Saxon, more or less,” the Scot shrugged off his good-humored insult.

How the hell does he do that?! 

I shook my head, still smiling, “Guilty as charged, I suppose, but I’ll have you know that I’m not your stereotypical Brit.”

“No, I wouldna say you are,” he chuckled easily. “Where did you grow up? Your accent… I canna quite place it.”

“Cairo,” I offered up. “My uncle raised me and he was an archeologist there.”

Jamie’s eyebrows skyrocketed, “That had to have been exciting.”

“It had its moments,” I shifted uncomfortably under the focus of his attention. “What about you? What part of Scotland are you from?”

His smile changed as he acknowledged my reticence and took over, comfortable passing the time by telling of anything and everything near to his heart.

“A wee village in the Highlands called Broch Mordha, just southwest of Inverness. My mother died when I was young, so it was just my da an’ my sister Jenny… they still live there, though we spent a few years outside of Paris.”

I asked, “Parlez vous français?”

“Oui, mademoiselle,” he winked… or at least tried to wink.

The resulting expression, a sort of owlish blink, had me laughing again and he feigned affront, his shoulders shaking in self-depreciation as he clutched his chest dramatically.

“Comment oses-tu!”

“I’m sorry,” I wheezed, lifting my hand to my mouth. “I don’t mean to laugh at you, it’s just…”

Jamie threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes, his grin still firmly in place as he attempted — and quite impressively pulled off — an aristocratic French accent, “I accept my lady’s apology and forgive such a grave error in etiquette… We do not do such things at Versailles, no?”

“Have you ever been?”

“To Versailles?” The Scotch burr was instantly back in full force. “Aye, once or twice… Extravagant place, that. Imagine having to defecate in a room full of nobles who want you dead!”

His head tipped back, his gaze lifting to the ceiling as he dryly commented, “Hope poor Auld King Louis had parritch for breakfast or things were sure to have been a wee bit awkward.”

I snorted, not about to reveal that I knew a good deal more about the courtesans of the French king’s Hall of Mirrors than the average person, but unable to resist from responding entirely.

“The presence of poison outweighed the absence of fiber in their diet, I assure you.”

“Aye,” he grinned absently, his mind’s eye obviously viewing his time spent in Paris.

Bzz. Bzz Bzz.

We simultaneously lunged for our phones, Jamie’s near at hand, but it was mine that was receiving a call… and inconveniently out of reach. I scrambled entirely awkwardly towards it and answered it with a swipe.

“Jill!” I greeted, almost weeping in relief.

Her voice was sweet music to my ears.

“Where are you? Did you get stuck in a snowbank or something?”

“Or something,” I rolled my eyes. “You didn’t get my message then?”

“No, what’s going on?”

“I’m stuck in the north elevator.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish,” I grumbled.

“Are you alone?”

I glanced over at my cellmate, “No, Fraser from NICU is here too.”

A high pitched squeal had me pulling my phone away from my ear in an effort to retain the integrity of my eardrum and I watched Jamie’s face grow red. It started as a dull flush at the base of his neck, but it crept up, spreading until his cheeks were aflame.

“You’re blushing,” I whispered with a grin.

“Just get us out of here, will you?!”

Jillian had continued on in her commentary over how perfect all of this was without noticing that I hadn’t been attending and was more than slightly affronted when I interrupted her, asking for help.

“Well, okay, but don’t complain to me when you’re missing him next week and all you have is my shoulder to cry on.”

“Sure,” I rolled my eyes. “Just notify the fire brigade or something, will you?”

A tone indicated that the call had ended and I commented dryly, 

“She hung up.”


	3. Ch. 3

Two Hours Later; almost 10am.

“So, what does Mr Beauchamp do?”

I inhaled sharply, choking on my own saliva as I sputtered stupidly, “What?!”

“You’re wearin’ his ring, aye?” Jamie explained, but his eyes widened as he immediately regretted his words. “Oh God! Is he no’ alive? I’m so sorry, Sassenach! I didna mean anythin’ by it.”

“No, it’s alright,” I coughed.

It wasn’t, really, and my relationship status was something I wanted to avoid discussing at all possible cost, but my cellmate didn’t seem to be the type for idle gossip and the truth would be out in full circulation soon enough on its own.

“My husband is alive,” I hedged, all the while wishing he wasn’t, “but Mr Beauchamp would be my father and he died when I was five.”

Jamie’s face softened, knowing the pain of losing a parent first hand as he murmured, “I’m so sorry, lass.”

“Thank you,” I acknowledged with half a smile, that particular emotional wound not nearly as painful as the one my husband had recently inflicted.

“How’d it happen?”

“A crash… he and my mother were killed by a drunk driver while we were visiting my uncle in California.”

“Christ, Claire,” he wheezed. “I should no’ have asked.”

No, you bloody shouldn’t have, but here we are.

A rather uncomfortable silence followed my companion’s pronouncement, broken only by his heavy sigh several moments later.

“So, what’s he do?” 

I caught the hint of self-deprecating good humor in his question. 

“This husband of yours who’s verra much alive?”

“He’s a history professor at Harvard,” I offered up around a quickly growing lump in the back of my throat.

I tried to divert the topic slightly and began to spew Frank’s achievements, beginning with his upcoming tenure and ending with his four-book contract with Harper Collins.

“He’s written two so far… the latest was about French philosophy and how it pertains to ancient Egyptian religious practices.”

Jame gave a vague sound of interest at this— though his eyes betrayed the fact that he had no earthly idea as to how the two connected— and nodded appropriately 

“I didn’t take his name when we married… but it’s Randall… Frank Randall,” I slowly came to a stop, my words ceasing as his name sat heavy on my lips, their bitter taste blocking out any further discussion.

My companion stiffened as he tossed me a wary look, “Any relation to Jack Randall?”

“Unfortunately,” I responded slowly, entirely willing for our conversation to completely derail on the topic of the bad apple in my husband’s family. 

“He’s Frank’s nephew.”

“Nephew?!”

“Frank’s the seventh of nine children… Jack’s father is the eldest and sixteen years his senior,” I shrugged, having had to explain my husband’s relationship with the infamous Black Jack Randall several times.

“You know Jack, then?”

“Unfortunately,” Jamie echoed my begrudging admittance, but his distaste for the degenerate seemed to outweigh mine.

I didn’t know that was possible.

He shook his head quickly with a forced smile tugging at his lips and redirected us to the very point of interest I’d been trying desperately to avoid.

“So, how long have you an’ Frank been together?

“Almost eight years,” my tongue felt thick, gagging me with every promise that my husband had broken.

“We were together six months before he proposed and then married four months after that…”

“Quite the whirlwind romance,” Jamie quipped when I didn’t continue, eager to get the conversation off him and back to me. “Maybe his next book should be your story, Sassenach. A wee bit easier to follow than Franco-Egyptian philosophy, aye?”

“Yes, well,” I choked, my voice sounding nothing like my own, “he, er… he asked me for a divorce last week.”

A wordless groan left his lips, sounding very much like I’d punched him in the gut… a feeling I knew well.

I sniffed, tipping my head back and staring at the ceiling above us as I tried to stem the onslaught of bitter tears that threatened to fall.

“We barely saw each other while I was in med school… he was busy with his own courses and trips abroad and once I finished, he wanted to start a family,” I rambled.

“We’ve been trying for the last six months but it hasn’t happened and now — out of the fucking blue — he tells me that he’s been having an affair with that grad student of his and she’s bloody pregnant.”

“I should no’ have asked,” Jamie lifted his hands as he shook his head, completely buckling under the emotional weight of my situation, “I’m sae sorry, tis none of my business.”

“It isn’t,” I shrugged, raking the sleeve of my sweater across my eyes and turned back to look at him for the first time. I found him to be as contrite as he professed to be, his face wrenched up in concern and remorse and I added, “but it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

A slow, compassionate smile lit his eyes as he agreed, “Aye, ‘tis… but please ken that I will never breathe a word of anything you’ve shared wi’ me.”

I nodded, a wobbly smile of my own appearing on my lips as I thanked him. We fell into a more comfortable silence for awhile but, soon, I found myself sharing even more of my frustrations.

“Most of our friends have stopped responding to my texts, they avoid me at the supermarket… one all but knocked over an end-case display yesterday in her haste to get out of the same aisle.”

Jamie growled something low in the back of his throat and I didn’t need to speak the language to understand his opinion of the situation.

“You dinna have anyone doin’ that to you here, do you?”

“No, only my nurse has met him… and she’s ready to lynch him from the nearest tree.”

Jillian had immediately risen to my defense when I’d told her, offering up her spare room for me to bunk in until I could find a flat of my own, and didn’t hesitate to voice her distaste for my soon to be ex-husband. 

He nodded, one brow lifting in approval, “I see.”

What made this man so bloody remarkable was that I could tell that he really did see… he felt complete empathy for what I was going through.

Maybe he’d loved and lost too.

“Enough about me,” I sniffed loudly, changing the subject entirely, “what about you?”

“There isna much to speak off,” Jamie shrugged.

“No significant other?”

“No, er,” his hand lifted to the back of his neck, pulling at it as his gaze dropped to the floor, “not any more.”

“Ah,” my brows rose. “I see.”

“She’s the reason I moved to Boston, actually.”

“Really?”

“Aye,” he grimaced. “The lass routinely broke the restraining order I had in place… an’ I couldna bear the thought of her bein’ jailed for it… so I left an’ didna tell her where I was going.”

“Oh God,” my hands flew to my lips, thanking the good Lord that I hadn’t had to deal with that legality in the sudden demise of my marriage.

“What’s her name?”

“Laoghaire.”


	4. Ch 4

Having delved quite deeper into each other's personal lives than we’d intended, we spent a good while in companionable silence, broken only by the news that we’d most likely be stuck in here until the storm stopped. Joe Abernathy had been apologetic in his delivery, but it was clear we were not high on the triage list. 

The knowledge that our rescue was not imminent sent my cellmate back into a conversive mood. However, his questions were random at best and completely irrelevant at the worst, leaning towards the sort you’d use when trying to break the ice at a company holiday party. 

“If you could travel anywhere in the continental United States, where would you go?” Jamie asked, his gaze fixated on a speck on the ceiling. 

My arms crossed tightly over my chest of their own accord, one brow lifting as I answered with a question of my own, “You really want to know where I’d go on holiday?”

A low chuckle sounded deep in his throat as he shrugged. 

“Tisna like you have anythin’ else to do.”

“Right,” I huffed, “but I just told you my husband wants a divorce and you want to know where I’d go on a bloody holiday?!”

His blue eyes swiveled to meet mine and their great depths of soothing compassion disarmed me, knocking the air from my lungs in a mighty whoosh. 

He commented slowly, “I dinna suppose the other’s any of my business… an’ yet I ken it’s certainly no’ your fault.”

“How is it not my fault?” I hiccuped, my voice cracking as tears once more threatened to fall. 

“Christ, Sassenach! Wha’ sort of man does such a thing?!” he burst. “Suddenly droppin’ somethin’ sae delicate in your lap the way he did? ‘Tis obviously no’ about you!”

I blinked in surprise at this, his outburst in my defense certainly not what I’d expected, but then slowly shook my head. 

It most certainly was my fault. 

He sighed heavily, explaining, “Lass, he knew this would come sooner or later. You didna catch him out, aye? He chose when to tell you — damn him for doin’ it the way he did. It was a surprise to you because you’d remained faithful to him… he used the bairn as the next step in a plan he’d been hatchin’ for a long while… it wasn’t your fault.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” I protested weakly. 

Jamie’s smile was melancholy, but honest. 

“Aye, but I do… because it’s the same thing she did to me. “

My brows rose and my jaw dropped a bit more than I’d intended in response to this revelation, making him chuckle wryly. 

“Didna ken you’d have so much in common with a random stranger, hmm?”

“No,” I admitted. “You are something of a surprise, James Fraser.”

He laughed outright at this, “Tha’s one word for it, Sassenach.”

“What word would you choose, then?”

“Fate,” he shrugged. 

“You think I was fated to get stuck with you in a bloody lift?”

“Ach, no, of course not,” he waved the notion away, clarifying, “I jus’ think people come into our lives as we need them.”

“And I need you?” I rose a brow, not convinced. 

“Well, you could have been stuck in here with George from the lab, is all I’m sayin’.”


End file.
